Some Summer Days in Iowa by Frederick John Lazell
page 49 of 60 (81%)
page 49 of 60 (81%)
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I pass through them I am a thousand miles from the city with its toil
and pain, its strife and sorrow. Worldly cares drop from my back as I stand upon the brink of this creek and watch the water spreading itself out over the white sand. Time and distance lose their force as factors in my life. I have found and entered the lost lands of Theocritus. Beneath this black ash, touched here and there with the purple wistfulness of the passing year, Pan might have sat to play his pipes, the Cyclops might have pleaded with the graceful Galatea. This haze which hangs over the white oak grove, for aught I know, may be the incense from Druid fires. Along this valley Chaucer's Immortals may have gone a pilgriming, and in this bosky wood Robin Hood may have trained his band. The legend that from this cliff an Indian lover on his favorite pony once leaped to the creek a hundred feet below and a mighty funeral ceremony was held at the Indian mound a little farther down the valley seems to be attested both by the cliff and the mound. Before I have gone very far I am unconcernedly conscious that I have not the slightest idea in which direction lies the nearest road home, nor how far I have come. But I know that somewhere down the lavender-veiled valley the creek and myself shall reach the river at last and all will be well. There are so many beautiful things to see on the way that I would not hasten if I could. Life and the future is much like that. * * * * * There is a pleasant constancy in the companionship of a creek. It is always at home when I call, always seems to wear a smile of welcome, always has something new to offer in the way of entertainment. And it is changeless through the years. If I were to return some September afternoon after an absence of half a lifetime I should expect to see a |
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